Wednesday, September 26, 2007

No. Wait. That's not the expression I'm looking for. Maybe what I mean is, The American media has gone too far.

Granted, my office is not the happiest of places, and after this morning's awkward elevator ride I thought for sure any hopes for a pleasant day were dashed, but I was pleasantly surprised, albeit disturbed (the two go hand in hand) when I came across the following article, if you can call it that, in today's issue of USA Today.

A few thoughts immediately came to mind, the first of which was: "Thank God someone has taken the time to give the American people the information they really need."

A quick reference guide to spotting terrorists is clearly long overdue. Chellooo? This could have been super-handy on September 10th. And in today's fast-paced, terrorist-riddled society nothing short of a pocket-guide would do. Everyone has ADD and/or can't read. USA Today knows this, and that's what makes them a great newspaper.

The second thought was: "If USA Today can make it this easy to spot terrorists, why don't they publish more quick-reference guides to identifying other societal filth?"

Why not a handy picture grid on How to Spot Potential Bitches, or This Is What A Cheating Boyfriend Looks Like. What about Don't Work For Anyone Who Looks Like This? Oh boy, would that have been helpful!

Now wait a second, my boss looks a lot like the Inner Brow Raiser...Oh God. I feel sick.

Really though, if it's that easy to identify those individuals who are most likely to blow shit up based on bushy eyebrows and bags under the eyes, then shouldn't publishers take the next step and help us all out with Quick-Spot guides we could use on days we're maybe not fighting terror?*

Allz I'm sayin' is I'm glad USA Today was willing to make this kind of visual information accessible to Americans everywhere. Especially the ones who work in airports (i.e. The ones who can't read).

Terrorists are bad, and should be spotted.

Now, if I could just change the shape of my eyebrows and take care of the bags under my eyes...

* Please note, we should all be fighting terror every day, even if it's with our minds.

Thursday, September 20, 2007

So after a long, arduous, tedious day (just one in a series of long, arduous, tedious days) I thought that when I got home tonight, I was done. Safe in my West LA apartment, comfortable. Alone to enjoy the solace of a well-deserved sleep. My bedtime routine nearly through, I finished brushing my teeth and sat down to pee the final pee of the day. Ah, just a few more minutes and I'd be enjoying the satiny joy of my 400 threadcount sheets, when---

FUCK! My toilet is clogged. Water... filling the bowl... the ominous clump of toilet paper, whirling slowly around, looking up at me, laughing in my face as if to say: "No, Bitch. This bowl will not be my final resting place. And this day is not over, no matter how bad you wish it were. And oh, by the way, do you remember how much money you make?"

FUCK, FUCK!! Now the water is all over my bathroom floor. Perfect. What the fuck am I supposed to do? Towels. Right. Ok, where are my towels. FUCK! Laundry bin. Ok. Ew, God this is gross. I feel dirtier than I did that time I hooked up with that guy in that tent. I need a plunger...

I don't have a plunger.

Why, Dear God, do I not have a plunger? I am prepared for everything! A year's worth of kidney beans sits now in my pantry, waiting for Y2K to finally happen, and I have more re-writable CDs than any illegally downloading kid could ever need, but no...fucking....plunger.

Sack up, Lisa. You did this to yourself. So quickly, I change out of my PJs, throw on some sweats and somehow manage to get my broke-ass, braless self to Longs.

It's 11:15pm.

"Excuse me," I say after having wandered the aisle where I was certain I would find said plunger. "Where could I find a plunger?" To which the very low IQ bearing night shift cashier responded: "Aisle 14. Hardware." Fuck. I was just there.

So finally after 10 minutes I find the fucking plunger I so desperately need, all the while my foot tingling with the sensation of filth (yes, pee-water did indeed get on my foot), I go to purchase the stupid thing. "$5.40, please," says my half-wit night-shifter. I hand her the money. She gives me my change.

"Have a great night, ma'm."

Walking out of that store, plunger in hand, my tingling pee-feet itching, on my way home to a toilet that remains un-flushable, I honestly had to wonder if she meant it.